


Classic is Just Another Word for Old

by DiscontentedWinter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Misunderstandings, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 18:39:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17309822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscontentedWinter/pseuds/DiscontentedWinter
Summary: When John sees Stiles and Peter spending time together, he draws certain conclusions.Very, very wrong conclusions.





	Classic is Just Another Word for Old

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bunnywest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Taste for the Classics](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17305154) by [Bunnywest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/pseuds/Bunnywest). 



> This is John's POV from A Taste for the Classics, Bunnywest's story. I lifted a lot of the dialogue in the second-to-last scene for it, so it all slots together. I also stole her summary. Plagiarism is such a dirty word... let's call it sampling!

“Coffee?”

John Stilinski stares the cup being offered to him, then at the man holding it.

“Why?”

“Because you’ve been staring at your computer for four and a half minutes,” Parrish tells him, “and it’s still on the log in screen. I figured you could use a pick-me-up.”

“Thanks,” John says, his voice as rough as sandpaper.

Parrish’s mouth quirks up sympathetically. “Didn’t get any sleep last night?”

“It’s that obvious, huh?” John runs a hand over his face.

Not that he needs the reminder that he’s looking tired. And old. He’s nearer to fifty than to forty these days, and he’s starting to feel it. And it doesn’t help that Stiles is still bouncing around the house every day with more energy than he had as a sugar-fuelled toddler. John’s tired, dammit, and he’s old.

And he’s apparently having a vey obvious pity party at work, given the way Parrish is looking at him worriedly.

He clears his throat. “Thanks for the coffee. Now, how are those reports coming along?”

 

 

***

 

The thing is, Stiles is eighteen now. And the other thing is, it’s been way too many years since he listened to any damn thing John told him anyway. But that doesn’t mean John doesn’t have a right to be worried, right? And honestly, in a town overrun with goddamn werewolves, why the hell is Stiles seemingly fixing on the one with an actual death toll?

Because this week he’s seen Stiles in the coffee shop with Peter Hale _twice_. The fancy coffee shop, not the diner. And John knows Stiles’s budget, and he knows he can’t afford to drop ten bucks on a coffee and a muffin every couple of days. Which means that Peter is buying, of course. Which means that he wants something. And John’s got a pretty good idea of why Peter Hale is sniffing around his kid, and he doesn’t like it one bit.

“Goddamn Peter fucking Hale and his goddamn booty count,” John mutters to himself in the shower. Fucking _what_? He freezes with the shampoo bottle in his hands. “ _Body_ count. His goddamn _body_ count.”

The thing is, John isn’t blind. Peter Hale is an attractive guy. Werewolf. Whatever. He’s the total package, and he knows how to work it, the smug asshole. That smirk of his. That swagger. The way that he rolls his shoulders sometimes and draws a guy’s attention right to his ridiculous neck. His _neck_. Necks aren’t supposed to be attractive. They’re supposed to be functional. They’re just the bit of the body that stops the head from falling off and bouncing away, and…

And clearly this is where Stiles gets his crazy from, right?

Because John is going around the fucking bend right now.

Fuck his life.

He’s going to call Chris Argent and get some more wolfsbane bullets.

 

***

 

Stiles is an adult, and John needs to respect that.

Stiles is an adult, and he’s allowed to squawk—and blush—when he gets texts on his phone and then mutters “Fucking creeperwolf” under his breath.

Why the fuck is he blushing though?

What the hell is Peter Hale sending him?

John stomps upstairs unhappily, and goes to bed with a paperback.

He’d thought Stiles was crazy about Derek, not Peter, and that it was reciprocated. He’d thought that eventually Stiles would stop flailing and Derek would remember how to use his words, and they’d figure their shit out and get together. He’d thought that Peter would still be single and—

No.

This is about _Stiles_.

John is concerned for Stiles’s welfare, like any father would be.

This isn’t about Peter, and his neck and his facial hair, and those v-necks he wears, and those expensive pants that pull tight across his ass when he moves, and that subvocal growling noise he makes when he gets angry, and—

Shit.

This is totally about Peter, isn’t it?

John is completely fucked.

 

***

 

It all comes to a head the night the John is working and gets a call to a minor traffic accident on Maple and Lincoln. It’s barely a ding, and there are no injuries at all, but one of the drivers is elderly and flustered, so John shows up, calms everyone down, and makes sure that the old guy gets a ride home with a deputy. Then, as he’s heading back to his car, he happens to glance down the street and see Peter’s ridiculously flashy car parked in the next block.

Weird.

There’s nothing in this block except for…

John’s heart skips a beat.

 _Rue de Paris_ , Beacon Hills’ answer to fine French cuisine, if the question had been “So, you’ve never actually been to France, right?” Still, it’s something of a Beacon Hills institution, a place for first dates and romantic evenings, where the wine is expensive and the tablecloths aren’t made of paper.

When Stiles was little he couldn’t pronounce the sign, and called it Rudey Paris.

John crosses the street and approaches the restaurant. There’s a sinking feeling in his gut that he’s too much of a coward to put a name to, and it only intensifies when he looks through the front window of the restaurant and sees Stiles and Peter sitting at a table, their faces bathed in flickering candlelight.

Stiles is laughing at something Peter says, and Peter is smiling in return.

Stiles looks happy, and Peter looks as strikingly handsome as always.

John presses his mouth into a thin line, draws a deep breath, and walks away.

It jabs at him all night.

Stiles is an adult, but Peter is a killer.

Stiles is an adult, but Peter is dangerous, and manipulative, and can’t be trusted.

Stiles is an adult, but John still has a right to protect him.

Of course, he can’t trust his objectivity here, can he?

Because Stiles is an adult, and John is _jealous_.

“Parrish,” he says later, working on next month’s roster.

Parrish leans into his doorway. “Sheriff?”

“Would you let your only son date Peter Hale?” he asks.

“What?” Parrish’s eyes widen. “No. Oh, god, _no_. Not in a million years.”

Well then. That settles it. John might not be able to trust his own judgement, but he can trust Parrish’s.

“I’m heading home,” he says, standing up from his desk. “Call me if anything crops up.”

 

***

 

John’s not going to lie. He, and his shotgun, are looking forward to this. He’s sitting on the porch swing when Peter pulls up in his car and Stiles stumbles out of the front passenger seat like a baby gazelle trying to walk on ice.

“Hale,” John calls out, standing up. “Get over here and face me like a man.”

Too much?

No, dammit. He’s spent eighteen years raising Stiles. He’s earned the right to posture a little. And, to his satisfaction, Peter actually looks intimidated for about half a second as he climbs out of the car. Then he sheds it in a heartbeat and defaults back to Smug Fucking Asshole.

“Uh, Dad?” Stiles hurries toward him. “What’s going on?”

“Quiet, Stiles. This is between me and Hale.”

Stiles makes a face like a toddler refusing vegetables.

“Hale,” John says, “I’m going to ask you a question, and by god, the answer had better be no.” He raises the barrel of the shotgun. “Are you sleeping with my teenage son?”

The fucker _smirks_.

Actually smirks.

And then he leans in a little, like he’s sharing a secret. “Absolutely not. Stiles is a little young for my taste.”

John isn’t sure what to make of that. He lowers the shotgun. “Well then what in hell are you two doing slinking off together at night?”

Peter’s smirk widens into a smile. “We’ve been talking about you, actually.”

John doesn’t like the jolt that runs through him at that. “Me?”

“You. I’ve been bribing Stiles with meals and caffeine to tell me what you like, so when I take you on a date, I can be certain you’ll enjoy yourself.”

When he takes him on a _what_? John’s brain trips on that word, stalls, comes at it again from a different angle, can’t process it from that direction either, and then shuts down completely.

“Of course,” Peter purrs, stepping up onto the porch like a wolf who’s just cornered the world’s dumbest rabbit, “it’s a date with me, so a good time’s guaranteed.”

John’s brain jump-starts again, except now it’s filled with explicit pornographic images. Most of them involve Peter, his smirk, his neck, and his dick.

The shotgun drops from his numb fingers. “Well, shit.”

Peter leans in close, his nostrils flaring a little as though he can smell John’s arousal. He probably can, the arrogant fuck. John should step back—he really should—but he doesn’t, and a shiver runs through him as Peter’s lips brush against his in a soft, brief kiss.

“Let me take you out and treat you right, Sheriff?”

And every single objection John had earlier in the night in regards to Peter and Stiles vanishes. Because fuck it, John is a long way past eighteen, and he can take care of himself.

“If you’re taking me out, you can call me John. And I don’t put out, not on the first date.” He reaches out and curls his palm around the back of that ridiculous fucking neck, pulling Peter in for another kiss.

This one is bruising.

“Oh, my fucking _eyes_!” Stiles exclaims, and flees inside.

John doesn’t spare him any sympathy.

His kid is an adult. He’ll get over it.

 

***

 

“Coffee?” Parrish asks the next morning.

“Thanks.” John taps his fingers along his desk. “So, the conversation we had last night?”

Parrish looks at him expectantly.

“What if it wasn’t your son who wanted to date Peter Hale?” he asks. “What if it was you? What would you say then?”

Parrish’s expression becomes wary. “I’d say that I really like my job here, and my boss’s private life is none of my business.”

“Good answer, son,” John says. “Good answer.”

He takes his coffee and whistles as he begins to work.


End file.
